


laughing at death

by obstinate_as_an_allegory



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 16:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2514719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinate_as_an_allegory/pseuds/obstinate_as_an_allegory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Re-watching 'Knight takes Queen,' I wondered how Anne felt during the scene in the cellar of the convent. I think she might have found the musketeers' banter kind of infuriating. </p>
<p>Slightly AU, because the arrival of Treville, Porthos and d'Artagnan is delayed by a few minutes so that the circumstances are a little more desperate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	laughing at death

Anne was furious.

She crouched in the dusty corner of the convent’s storeroom, boxed in by Athos and the Mother Superior.

She was angry with the men hunting them, for the pointless murder of an innocent nun, for the damage to the convent, for putting her in this terrible situation.

More than that, she was angry with herself, because she was no _use_. The events of the past few days had proven that all too many times; adept as she might be at navigating the rats’ nest that was the Paris court, out in the wilderness or here in the midst of a battle she had no useful skills. She clutched the little pot of gunpowder that Athos had absentmindedly passed her and sat immobile in her corner. She had watched the nun’s hands moving with swift familiarity as she reloaded the pistol and felt her own uselessness even more keenly.

More urgently than either of these things, however, she was furious with the musketeers. Aramis had retreated from her since the dawn came, and she understood why, but for her own part, as Anne rather than as the Queen of France, his wariness felt like a rejection. He and Athos were coiled either side of the opening, horribly close to the musket balls which hailed through the doorway. Either of them could be struck down by a stray shot at any moment, and the thought of bodily injury to either of them was unbearable (but, if she was honest with herself, particularly to Aramis; Aramis who had been bared to her last night, body and soul laid out for her exploration, who embodied a kind of romance and intoxication which was forbidden to a queen and who was reckless enough to offer it to her anyway...).

Anne’s heart stopped when Aramis blinked in alarm and looked at Athos and tersely said ‘I’m out.’

Athos’ calm jarred against her agitation as he got out his last two bullets and bounced one of them over to Aramis. They joked back and forth, as they had done during the previous battle, shouting across the chapel to one another between shots. The levity struck sparks against her frayed nerves and she schooled her face to passivity, trembling with fury.

Could they not _stop talking_? Skilled though the musketeers may be, they were severely outnumbered and short of ammunition and they, certainly, if not the Mother Superior and Anne, herself, as well, were going to be killed in this hell hole. The cheeriness made her want to scream at them. She wanted to seize Aramis by the collar and kiss him and then box him on the ears, but she couldn’t reach him across Athos and suspected that Athos had engineered this deliberately.

Aramis fired and ducked back behind the wall. ‘Did you get him?’ Athos asked wryly.

‘Athos, please,’ was the reply, all bravado and casual familiarity. Anne clenched her fists, staring at the opposite wall and trying to block them out. Good lord in heaven, she thought, so help me, if I have to listen to any more of this, I’ll scream. How could they celebrate one successful shot, knowing that they only had one more and that it _wasn’t enough_.

She wasn’t, she realised with some surprise, angry with them because they would not be able to keep their word and protect her. She did not blame them for that; she knew nobody could have tried harder nor held out for so long. She could hear the very last musket ball being loaded into Athos’ pistol. Every sound seemed hugely amplified now that the shooting had mostly stopped. To her surprise, Athos passed the loaded pistol to Aramis once he had finished priming it, and then silently rose to his feet, one hand on his sword hilt. They seemed to communicate wordlessly over matters of strategy, at least, reserving their voices for aggravating banter. Both were silent now, and in fact Anne was not sure she preferred it.

She shifted her shoulder blades against the rough wall in agitation. She could hear muffled voices from the enemy in the quiet, and she realised in horror how close they were. Defensible as this position might be, it also left no escape for Anne and her gallant protectors.

In the name of the king, France, and God himself, Anne did not wish to perish in this dusty cellar. Equally fervently, she wished not to be responsible for the deaths of the Mother Superior and two ridiculous, infuriating musketeers.

She felt the moment the enemy started moving; it vibrated through her very blood. She closed her eyes, curling tighter into the corner. She heard Aramis fire, and the echoing shots from across the room which they had no way of returning. She felt Athos move, and heard the ring of swords being pulled from their sheaths. She heard Aramis follow him.

After a few seconds, when the cacophony grew louder and harder to follow, she decided that reality could not be crueller than her imagination and she opened her eyes. She crawled forward to peer out through a crack in the doorway. Athos and Aramis were standing side by side in front of the doorway, fighting in a whirl of steel. The enemy seemed impossibly numerous. As she watched, Athos succeeded in running a man through and shoved his body hard at another man as he approached. Aramis engaged yet another, disarming him with a move too quick for her to follow and somehow managing to catch the man’s dagger as he dropped it before slamming his head into the wall. It was hardly the first violence she had seen: as queen, it was an ever-present threat, but it was the first time she had had opportunity to watch the musketeers in action from such close range, with nobody trying to tug her away.

For a moment or two, she imagined that Athos and Aramis could dispose of the whole troop in this fashion. They looked, for a moment or two, preternaturally quick and lethal in the flickering light. As more men came, though, she realised that Athos was limping and had his teeth gritted tightly in pain or exertion. Aramis’ movements were becoming heavier and less precise, and there was a slice in one sleeve of his doublet that was leaking blood. She couldn’t watch this. For a second, she thought of curling back into her corner, closing her eyes and attempting to shut out the noise; this was terrible, but there was no reason she should make it worse by watching. She changed her mind, though. She was superstitiously afraid that the moment she took her eyes off them would be the moment their strength would fail. And she also felt that if this was to be the last stand of these brave men, then somebody should bear witness to it, even if that person was then murdered in turn.

Her grim thoughts were interrupted by somebody’s startled cry of ‘Musketeers!’ She was confused for a moment, and then the commotion of battle sounded in another part of the cellar entirely; shots were fired; at last, the enemy seemed to diminish and retreat. A familiar voice called out for Athos and Aramis, and one of them raggedly replied, ‘in here.’

Before Anne had fully processed what was happening, the Mother Superior was helping her to her feet. Aramis smiled at her wearily, his head tilted back. Athos was bent over, resting his hands on his thighs.

Captain Treville shuddered in relief when he saw her, and immediately offered her a hand. ‘Your Majesty. Thank God.’

She felt dizzy with relief. She nodded automatically to the captain, casting sideways glances at Athos and Aramis as the two musketeers who had followed Treville into the room moved towards them in concern. Neither of them appeared to be seriously injured, and she was supremely thankful for that, having so many times in the past hour imagined them falling in her defence.

As she turned away, she heard Aramis say to one of the newly arrived musketeers ‘A bit late, aren’t you?’

‘We didn’t want to deprive you of the chance to show off,’ replied his friend, and Athos laughed hollowly. Anne, with a restraint born of long practice, resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

She allowed Treville to lead her out of the cellar into the light and air of the courtyard above.


End file.
